


In the Widening Gyre

by wingedspirit



Series: A Blaze of Light [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Falling from Heaven, Raphael!Crowley, Wing Injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-15
Updated: 2019-10-15
Packaged: 2020-12-17 01:56:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21046406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wingedspirit/pseuds/wingedspirit
Summary: Without clamor, without weeping, without a single cry, Raphael Falls.Here is what comes after.(A short story set in the universe of “A Blaze of Light”. It can technically be read as a stand-alone, since all you really need to know about this universe is it’s an AU where Crowley is a Fallen Raphael, but you will probably enjoy it more if you’ve read “A Blaze of Light” already.)





	In the Widening Gyre

**Author's Note:**

> Just to be perfectly clear: this fic describes how Crowley (here called Raphael, since he hasn’t picked up the name Crowley yet) Fell, and the immediate consequences of that, including him getting four of his six wings cut off. There’s no graphic descriptions (at least in my opinion), but you might want to be mindful anyway, if that’s something that might upset you. It only ends happily insofar as it ends with Raphael leaving Hell for the Garden of Eden.

⁂

_Turning and turning in the widening gyre_  
_the falcon cannot hear the falconer;_  
_things fall apart; the centre cannot hold…_

⁂

# I. Raphael

Raphael is walking down the stairway from Heaven, considering where he might go, when the next step disappears from under his foot. On reflex, he spreads his wings and beats them once, to steady himself; it works, but he feels several of his primary feathers splinter and give.

He knows what’s happening to him; of course he does. He’s not an idiot.

Only, he’d expected —

At the end of the war, when his brother and his allies had Fallen, it had been sudden; the floor of Heaven had given out from under them, and their wings had splintered, and they’d Fallen, screaming.

He hadn’t been certain he would Fall, when he turned his back on Heaven; but he’d thought that if it happened, it would be immediate.

This is anything but; this is a chance to change his mind. If he turns back now —

If he turns back now, what then?

Heaven’s course is set; even if he makes a stand, puts himself openly against his siblings, there is nothing he can do to change it. Worse, he might incite another rebellion, and doom more than just himself to destruction.

He’d thought — he’d _hoped_ — that if he persisted enough, he might be able to get through to God, get Her to answer; that if he could just speak to Her, She would fix things.

He’d been wrong. God is _gone;_ God has abandoned Heaven — or, at the very least, abandoned _him_.

Well. He’s certainly not going to stay where he is unwanted; and if the only option left to him is to Fall — so be it.

But he will Fall on his own terms.

His feathers are splintering; his wings will soon not hold him. But if he leaps _now_, instead of waiting it out —

And so he pulls himself straight; and sets his jaw; and strengthens his wings with a thought and a whisper of his power; and leaps off the staircase, through the side wall that he knows isn’t actually there, and swoops downwards.

The further down he flies, the more of his feathers splinter. His wings feel like they’re burning, though he knows they aren’t; his soul, too, feels like some great beast has set its claws into it and is intent on tearing it apart.

He forces himself to ignore the pain. He will not cry out.

Down, and down, and down he flies; more and more feathers splinter. It’s gotten to the point where it’s more of a controlled fall than a glide, and he grits his teeth. He is the First Healer; his body _will_ obey him. He cannot heal the damage, but he believes he can redirect it; and so the splintered feathers concentrate in his two lower wing pairs, leaving his top one functional, at least for now.

The pain is so fierce, now, that he can’t ignore all of it, and his sight blurs; he feels, more than sees, the approaching boundary between Heaven and Earth.

He could still turn back; even with his wings as they are, he could make it back to Heaven. He could —

He will not.

He pulls his wings tight to his body and dives through the boundary —

— and Falls.

He is torn apart, shattered, his Grace pulled from him; the pain is monstrous, overwhelming, excruciating. The pain in his right arm, at his temple, and the burning in his eyes and his wings are almost a cool breeze in comparison.

He will — not — _scream_ —

The pain ebbs, leaving behind an echoing, hollow emptiness that is, somehow, worse. He barely has the presence of mind to snap his wings open again to keep himself from plummeting.

Trembling, he takes stock of himself.

His two lower wing pairs are entirely stripped of feathers and are hanging off him limply, the tendons snapped; in the lowest pair, the ulna and radius are broken in half, the remainder of the two wings entirely gone. His eyes have changed, he can _feel_ it, though he has no idea what they look like.

Instinctively, he tries to call his staff, to see if there’s anything he may be able to do to heal himself, and —

It won’t come. What he gets, instead, is a pulsing, burning pain at his temple, so strong he has to close his eyes against it for a moment.

And it makes sense, it _does_, that his _God-given_ staff would be sealed away from him, but — it _hurts_, to be so — limited.

Mutilated, in body as well as soul.

_Broken_.

There’s an odd sort of calm taking over him, a detachment — like he’s watching all of this happen to someone else, almost. A small part of him is distantly aware of what this is, and that he should fight it. He’d seen it happen to others, after the war; unable to deal with what they’d done during the fighting, or with the loss of a loved one, they’d just — shut down.

He should fight it, he knows he should. He knows it will make things much worse, in the long run. But there is a peace in numbness, a comfort, and a kind of clarity; and he will need that, because —

— _his Grace, _a distant part of him screams,_ it’s gone, and God had still been with him and he’d not known, and now it’s all gone _—

— he’d planned on staying on Earth; but his shattered wings, he knows, will never heal from this. They will forever remain as they are — 

— _broken broken broken, like the rest of him_ —

— and there is only one thing to do, really; they need to be removed; left as they are, they would be entirely unmanageable, and make him conspicuous. It’s not something he can do by himself, though; and — 

— _truly alone, now, abandoned, forsaken _—

— well, nobody in Heaven would offer him aid now, would they? So, really, he only has one option left to him —

— _no no no no_ —

Smothering everything under the heavy blanket of detachment, he flies downwards, in a lazy spiral, towards his brother’s domain.

⁂

# II. Beelzebub

Lucifer is standing outside his throne room when Beelzebub and Dagon arrive, talking with the guards about something that Beelzebub is certain is entirely of no consequence; and that is the very first sign of something being very wrong indeed, because that is something Lucifer never does. Lucifer loves lording it over the rest of them, sitting tall and straight in his ornate throne on its raised platform while whoever he is speaking with stands awkwardly at its foot.

“You’re late,” Lucifer says, scowling, when he notices them. “Our meeting was due to begin a half hour ago.”

As if he’d not outright invaded her mind, a scant five minutes earlier, saying: _You are required in my throne room immediately. Bring Dagon. Tell no one._

“Our apologies, my Lord,” she says, bowing deeply. “We were unexpectedly delayed.”

“Apologies are worthless,” Lucifer says, still scowling. “Do better, or you will be replaced.” Then, turning to the guards: “This meeting is of the utmost importance; we must not be disturbed. Anyone intruding upon it will be made an example of.”

The guards stiffen and bow. “Yes, my Lord.”

This is not an empty threat, Beelzebub knows; it’s been made before, and it’s the reason the two guards standing at Lucifer’s door are relatively new to the job. It’s odd, though, for it to be made for something that is, at best, an impromptu meeting, and is more likely to be not a meeting at all.

Something is definitely wrong.

With ill-disguised anger, Lucifer pushes the throne room doors open and all but stalks in; uncharacteristically, he stops as soon as he’s inside; rather than heading to his throne, he stands by the doors, waiting, as Beelzebub and Dagon walk inside and past him.

The doors slam shut behind them and lock; a moment later, Lucifer wards them, the glowing tracery of the occult workings and sigils clearly visible upon them. And that — _that_ makes absolutely no sense; there is rarely ever a reason to make wards visible, unless you are dealing with someone who might not trust you to set them up properly. What…?

Lucifer is still scowling; but now that she looks more closely, there is a twist to his mouth, a set to his jaw, that speaks of some feeling other than anger. He sighs deeply and calls out: “Enough?”

“Yes,” a low, hoarse voice responds; and the air shudders, and a Fallen is standing in the previously empty room.

His hair is a dull, dark copper, lank and soaked through with sweat, plastered to his skull; his eyes are gold from side to side, pupils slitted and serpentine; he bears a snake mark on his right temple, the skin around it red and inflamed in appearance. There are dried tear tracks on his cheeks; they gleam oddly in the low light, making it seem as if he’s cried more than just tears.

He has six wings — _had_ six wings, because the lower four are a ruin of tendon and bone, very obviously shattered beyond repair. His two remaining intact wings are the colour of a bruise, a dull black that shades to a dark blue at the very edge; they are as haggard and ragged as the rest of him, several of the primary feathers badly splintered. His previously-white robes are streaked and crusted with half-dried golden blood.

He stands tall and silent and still, chin raised in apparent challenge; his face is smooth and expressionless, but he is death-pale, bone-white, and she can see the lines of tension in the corner of his eyes and the set of his jaw.

He is not someone Beelzebub recognises, and yet —

Six wings, red hair — that is not a common combination. In fact, there is only one she could think of matching that description — but no, surely not, even Heaven would not be so unjust as to…

“Raphael?” Dagon chokes out, putting voice to Beelzebub’s suspicion; and Dagon is a Healer, she worked directly with Raphael before the war, she would know him well enough —

The Fallen — _Raphael_ — inclines his head in silent greeting.

“Oh good, no need for introductions, then,” Lucifer says briskly, with blatantly-forced cheer. “My brother here has gotten himself into a little bit of trouble, as you can see, and has wisely elected to come to us for aid.”

A muscle jumps in the corner of Raphael’s jaw, but otherwise, he remains so still and expressionless he may as well be carved from stone.

“Your wings are beyond healing,” Dagon says, slowly, every word sounding as if it were pulled out of her against her will; and how she manages to keep her voice from breaking, Beelzebub has no idea. “Beyond my capabilities, at least.”

“I know.” Although Raphael’s voice is still hoarse, there is no mistaking the gentleness in it. “Beyond mine, also.”

Dagon is standing near enough that Beelzebub feels her flinch; so she picks up the asking, instead. “How were you thinking we might help, then?”

“They need to be removed, of course,” Raphael says, evenly, “but I cannot do it myself. Lucifer will hold me down, of course; you’ll pull on each wing and dislocate it, then hold it still, so she” he nods in Dagon’s direction “can sever it at the joint.”

Dagon flinches again, and Beelzebub barely manages to keep herself from doing the same. Removing wings is unheard of, extreme; she might even go as far as describing it as monstrous. All of the Fallen, regardless of how badly damaged their wings were, have wanted to keep what they had left of them. Even Lucifer is looking queasy and unsettled, as if he’d not known what Raphael would ask; and Raphael seems entirely too calm about all of this, sounding for all the world like he’s simply making small talk —

— and, _fuck_, she knows what this is, she’s seen it happen before. Some of the Fallen had reacted like that, unable to cope with what had happened to them; it had seemed to help, in the short term, but had only ended up making it worse in the long run. Were this someone under her command, she might — she ought to — 

But he isn’t, is he? For all that she stands as Lucifer’s right hand —

_And for how long?_ a little voice in her head whispers. _He was an Archangel; he will be a threat to your position. Would it not be better for him to break entirely? He would be nothing but a pretty tool for you to use, then._

— he is not her responsibility.

She sets her jaw and straightens her back. “Well, then. Let’s get to it.”

The throne room floor is solid stone — cold, and hard, and damp, like the rest of Hell; before she can think twice about it, she snaps her fingers, conjuring a thick, soft blanket at Raphael’s feet. This little comfort in the face of what is happening, at least, even Hell can offer.

His face remains expressionless, but she fancies she can see gratitude, in his eyes. With a sigh, he sinks to his knees on the blanket, then moves to a prone position, his robes falling open at the back to expose the base of his wings and the long, sinuous curve of his back. Some of the tension has left him, she notices; and she wonders how much it was costing him, to remain unflinchingly upright.

Lucifer makes an aborted, hesitant movement towards him; and she rolls her eyes. “Would you rather it be me, holding him down?”

“With all due respect,” Raphael says, “that would not end well.”

She scoffs. “You understand that as far as I’m concerned, that’s a challenge, right?” Without giving him a chance to answer, she walks over to him and kneels over him, her knees on either side of his waist; and puts one hand between his shoulders and the other at the small of his back, bearing down with her weight so he’s pinned to the floor.

She’s shorter and slighter than him, and there’s a wiry strength to his limbs; if this were purely about the physical, she would never be able to hold him down. But his reaction to pain is quite probably going to be more magical than physical, and she’d been a Seraph — with him freshly Fallen and likely exhausted, she stands a decent chance of overpowering him. “Lucifer’s better at the dislocating, anyway.”

He snorts, very softly. “Good point. I remember having to fix a fair few.”

He’d fixed hers, once; Michael had been almost as good at dislocating wings as her almost-twin. She’d been face-down on the ground, whimpering from the pain, so she hadn’t actually seen him, only the tip of his staff and the hem of his robe; she wonders if he remembers her.

She wonders if his choice to help everyone, regardless of sides, is why he Fell.

Apparently having made up his mind, Lucifer stalks over, and grabs the exposed humerus of one of Raphael’s shattered wings; and pulls, and twists. The wing dislocates with a pop; Raphael’s back tensing under her hands is all the warning she gets before his power slams into her.

She pushes back with her own power, trying to subdue, not harm; and it is immediately evident that she is vastly, vastly outmatched. Under that expressionless surface, Raphael is badly hurt and blankly furious — and she has made herself a convenient target. Hurriedly, she attempts to throw up a shield, but she knows it won’t —

“Would you fucking _hurry_,” Raphael rasps out; all at once, the oppressive weight of his power vanishes. He is trembling under her hands; his fingers have turned into claws, she realises, and he has scratched deep gouges into the solid stone floor of the room.

Dagon stammers out something unintelligible and rushes over; she conjures a thin, wickedly sharp blade and slowly, neatly slices Raphael’s wing off. There’s barely any blood, as fine, blue-black scales ripple across the wound immediately, and just as swiftly ripple away, leaving a fully-healed scar in their place; but what little there is of it is — golden. She’s seen enough Fallen bleed to know that they bleed black; only angels bleed gold. Raphael is definitely Fallen, and yet — what the _fuck?_ Beelzebub exchanges a glance with Dagon, finding her equally as startled as she is.

Lucifer, who doesn’t appear to have noticed the blood, drops the severed wing with a disgusted noise; it rattles once on the stone floor, then bursts into white-hot flame, quickly being reduced to nothing but ash.

When Lucifer dislocates the second wing, Beelzebub is better prepared. She flings up a shield before Raphael reacts, not after; and when his power slams into it, the shield buckles, but does not break. To be fair, though, that’s more because of him than because of her. The stone floor now has large cracks in it, fanning out from under his hands; he is very obviously holding back, redirecting some of his power into the floor to keep from actually hurting her. That he can maintain that much control in his condition is, truthfully, quite astonishing. Helpful, also, because he’s never quite stopped shaking after the first cut, and she actually needs to put her full weight on him to hold him still so Dagon is able to make a clean cut.

The removal of the two remaining damaged wings goes similarly, without any further issues. When it’s done, all the tension goes out of him; he shudders, and pulls his two remaining wings close to his body, and she has to scramble backwards and off him to avoid getting cut to ribbons by his bladed primaries.

As she stands, she catches Lucifer eyeing the cracks in the floor speculatively. She knows what he’s thinking — she was thinking the same thing earlier, after all. Raphael is powerful; he could be very useful to them. But the thought unsettles her.

Raphael pulls himself to his feet, smoothly enough, although she can see the tension has returned to his posture. “I appreciate the assistance,” he says, softly.

“Of course, of course, anything for my brother,” Lucifer says, too jovial by half, acting as if he’d done all the work rather than the simplest part of it. “You’ll stay a while, of course. Recover.”

It’s not a question, and it’s much closer to an order than an invitation; she wonders if Raphael realises that. He must, because he attempts to protest. “I —”

“Nonsense,” Lucifer interrupts, wrapping a possessive arm around Raphael. “You’re not at all imposing. Come — I’ll find you somewhere to stay.” Then, Lucifer half-turns towards her and Dagon, and makes a sharp gesture towards the door with his head; an obvious dismissal. There is nothing the two of them can do but obey.

As soon as they’re sufficiently far from the throne room, alone and out of earshot of anyone, Dagon rounds on her. “This is wrong.”

“Hush,” Beelzebub says, sharply. “You cannot say things like that.”

“It’s wrong,” Dagon repeats, mutinously. “He does not belong here. You know that as well as I do.”

Dagon’s right, is the problem. But — “What, exactly, do you expect me to do about it?”

“Lucifer listens to you. You could —”

“He only listens to me when I’m helping him develop ideas he’s already had,” she interrupts, “and you know that. If he wants to keep Raphael, that’s what will happen, and there is nothing either of us can do about it. Raphael will need to get himself out, if he can.”

If he doesn’t end up too broken to even want to try.

God, she hopes not.

⁂

# III. Lucifer

“Work on the eight circle proceeds apace.”

“Very good, Dagon,” Lucifer says. “What of the Eden project?”

Dagon opens her mouth to answer; but she is interrupted by a sharp knock on the door.

“What?” Lucifer calls out, irritated. With these endless interruptions, it’s a wonder he can get anything done. Perhaps he should replace his throne room guards again, and really, really impress upon the new ones how little he tolerates being disturbed.

Four guards enter, ones he recognises as being among the lesser demons who’d been given a corporation and set to guard the doorways he’d set up between Hell and Earth. They are half-carrying, half-dragging Raphael along with them.

His brother is hanging limply in their grasp, not struggling; not unconscious, but rather deliberately making them work harder to move him. He has a split lip, sluggishly oozing black blood, and a rapidly darkening bruise on a high cheekbone; his wings are hidden, and he’s barefoot, wearing a dark grey robe with a hint of red embroidery. As ever, he looks harmless, unthreatening and entirely unexceptional; it never ceases to amaze him, how easily Raphael can make everyone else believe he’s nothing but the lowest of the low.

“What is this?”

“Caught him trying to leave,” one of the guards answers. “You said no one was allowed to. We roughed him up a bit and brought him here so you can punish him, like you said.”

Well. If his brother wants to set himself amongst the common rabble, he will be treated like one of them. “You are aware it is forbidden to leave, yes?”

Raphael lifts his head and glares at him, but says nothing.

The two guards holding him by the elbows give him a rough shake; the one who’d spoken strikes him sharply across the mouth. “Answer your Lord, filth.”

Raphael sets his jaw and spits a glob of black blood on the floor; and then he moves, fluid and graceful, so quick that even Lucifer has trouble following his motions. He shakes out his wings and spreads them wide, half-twisting as he does so; the four guards fall to the floor, throats cut by his bladed wings, their immortal souls leaving their now-dead corporations.

In the very next moment, before anyone can react, he’s across the room, holding Dagon trapped, one arm keeping her wrists pinned behind her back and the other held tight across her throat. His wings are spread and held at the ready, black blood dripping from the primaries; Lucifer has no doubt he’d use them on Dagon, too, given the slightest provocation.

“I’m leaving,” Raphael says, very softly, his voice cutting like a bared blade. “If you try to keep me here, I will make sure you regret every moment of it. And this seems like a good place to start, doesn’t it? You have an awful lot of plans that hinge on giving your Fallen a corporeal body, and Dagon here is the only Healer you have, the only one who can craft those for you.” He curves a wing and gently brushes the edge of it over Dagon’s cheek, making her shudder. “It would be _such_ a shame if anything… permanent… were to happen to her.”

And oh, what a beautiful monster Lucifer could make of him, if he kept him, if he twisted him. If he broke him fully and reforged him into what he wished him to be. It would not take much; it’s already begun.

It would not take much; and his brother may have been an Archangel, may have been close enough to equal to him in Heaven, but this is Hell — this is _his domain_. He has no limits here. He could very easily overpower Raphael, and —

“My Lord,” Dagon says, strained, “if I may make a suggestion?”

Lucifer waves a hand for her to continue, lazily. It costs him nothing to hear her out.

“The Eden project. We need someone to send to the Garden. It could be him.”

Lucifer considers. He’s sure Dagon means well; but her suggestion is a foolish one. Were Raphael allowed to leave Hell, he would doubtlessly never return. He, himself, would be the only one who might be able to overpower him and force him back — but on Earth, his status as Supreme Lord of Hell would count for nothing, and they would be far more evenly matched.

But —

A beautiful monster Raphael might make; but the more he thinks on it, the more he feels ashamed of the thought. He rebelled against Heaven to be able to make his own decisions, so he could be master of his own domain rather than a servant in someone else’s; and what does it make him, that he wants to force his brother — his _brother!_ — to remain where he does not wish to be, to take away his free will and twist him into nothing more than a tool?

He will not be a hypocrite.

“That is not a bad idea, actually,” he says, coolly. “Would it suit you, Raphael?”

Raphael hisses, suspicion writ clear all over his face. “You’ll have to be more clear. What exactly is it that you want me to do, and what’s in it for me?”

“You are aware of the Garden of Eden, I assume?” Most would not be, but Lucifer has no doubts his brother has been keeping an ear out for anything of interest.

“I am. What of it?” Raphael tightens his arm on Dagon’s throat; she whimpers out something unintelligible, no doubt a plea for mercy.

“You want to leave; I want something to be done in the Garden.” Lucifer spreads his arms in a persuasive gesture. “Tempt the humans — the method, I leave up to you. Only do this for me, and you need never return to Hell. You will be left alone.”

Raphael’s eyes narrow. “Just like that?”

“Just like that. I would not mind you coming to visit every now and then, of course — we _are_ brothers, after all — but you will be free to do as you want, I swear to you. We can make a Pact, if you wish.”

Raphael snorts. “No offense, but I’ve no wish to have you bound to me. Your word is enough.”

“None taken. Do we have a deal?”

“We do.” Raphael hisses softly in Dagon’s ear and shoves her away from him, hard enough that she stumbles and falls to her knees. Then, he runs a hand over himself, almost lazily, healing his injuries and cleaning the blood from his wings. “I assume you’re fine with me leaving right now, then.”

“Of course.” Lucifer gathers his power; a doorway appears on a previously-blank wall. “That door will take you directly to Eden.”

“Right.” Raphael’s mouth twists. It’s not quite a smile — but then, Lucifer wasn’t expecting to get one. “May we meet on a better occasion.” He turns on his heel, and leaves through the doorway.

Lucifer seals it behind him, then turns to Dagon. “I expected better of you.”

Dagon climbs to her feet and looks at him cautiously. “My Lord?”

“You let Raphael subdue you, which forced me to make concessions I otherwise may not have. I trust that will not happen again.” It matters not that he could have easily overpowered his brother, that it was his own decision to let him leave; he has appearances to maintain.

Dagon raises her eyebrows, her face a mask of obsequiousness. “Of course, my Lord. I can understand how you might have felt compelled to protect me, seeing as how I am the only Healer among the Fallen. You have my apologies and my gratitude.”

Lucifer scowls. He can tell Dagon is trying to make a point, trying to use this to improve her status. Give someone an inch, and someone else will try to take a mile. “What did Raphael say to you?”

Dagon frowns. “I’m sorry, my Lord, I am not certain what you mean.”

“When he hissed in your ear, just now. What did he say?”

“It was only hissing,” Dagon says, smoothly. “I think he was trying to threaten me, so I wouldn’t try to attack him when he let me go.”

“Right.” Lucifer has his doubts; but Dagon _is_ the only Healer among the Fallen, and he cannot easily threaten her into compliance. “Get back to work. Tell Beelzebub what truly happened here, but no one else; if anyone asks, the demon who killed these guards was destroyed for his crimes.”

“As you command, my Lord.” Dagon bows and leaves.

Lucifer waves a hand to dispose of the dead bodies and groans, rubbing his forehead. What a fucking mess. He just hopes the decision to give his brother the run of Earth won’t come back to haunt him.

**Author's Note:**

> The title and epigraph are from [Yeats](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/43290/the-second-coming). (What’s subtlety?)
> 
> I have a feeling that when I said I’d be writing in the universe of “A Blaze of Light” again, most people might’ve expected something nice and fluffy set after the main fic ended, not… this. I will be writing happier things, I promise! Just… I had most of this already outlined, since I wasn’t sure whether I’d end up including it in the main fic or not, and it felt like a waste not to flesh it out.
> 
> You are, as ever, welcome to come yell at me on [Tumblr](https://wingedspirit.tumblr.com/).


End file.
